


How The World Could Be (So Very Fine)

by Griffindork



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Abby Griffin/Jake Griffin - Freeform, Alcohol, Clarke & Abby & Jake, Clarke Griffin & Wells Jaha - Freeform, F/F, High on fluff, light on plot, literally this is so soft
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-13
Updated: 2016-09-24
Packaged: 2018-08-14 22:21:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 19,817
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8031190
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Griffindork/pseuds/Griffindork
Summary: Clarke Griffin comes home from the summer with a mind full of questions and no sure direction. She isn't sure what it is that she wants to do. Lexa moves in next door and she gets more questions.
 
“Of course, Clarke.” Her mouth shapes Clarke's name so precisely, like she holds it in her mouth like a prayer and releases it like a wish. It makes Clarke shiver.





	1. Chapter 1

Clarke cut the engine and the silence after it held a certain sort of finality. She looks back up, into the rearview mirror, watching the van sat in her driveway, back doors thrown open and filled with boxes. The adrenaline that had corsed through her veins in the shock, pushing her foot onto the brake pad, still hummed, pulling her eyebrows down in a scowl.

Pulling the snapback that sat backwards on her head down and tucking the stray tendrils of hair back, behind her ears, Clarke steps out of her car and onto the sidewalk. As she pulls the bags out of the trunk - because she can and will do this trip in one - a bear of a man appears, bending into the back of the van and pulling boxes into his arms. When he stands, back straight and strong, his head sails over the top of the van, and his arms ripple under the jumper pushed up to his elbows, capable muscles holding the weight of the boxes piled in his arms. He disappears into the house next to her parents.

She rolls her eyes, because of course. When her parents had told her they were building on the land to the left of their house she’d rolled her eyes, sat in her college dorm four hours away. Another one of her dad’s projects and it kept him entertained for nearly a year as he designed and planned and built. He'd offered it to her, showed her around it proudly, but she'd refused. She didn't know what she wanted but she knew it wasn't to put down roots in her parents garden. Then it might be permanent. No, instead she's twenty-two and back living with her parents, in her old bedroom. It felt familiar and old, and not permanent.

Her mind drifts to the letters that will be arriving any day now and her fingers tense and loosen around the handles of the plastic bags in response. She doesn't know what she wants and she has to step over a hockey stick leant against the open door of the van as she makes her way up the drive.

“Gustus.”

Clarke’s eyes flash to a girl - a woman, definitely a woman - standing in the shade of the doorway that the man had disappeared into. There’s a fine sheen of sweat across her forehead and she runs her palm over it, trying to slick the flyaway hairs down and into the hold of the dainty plait resting over her shoulder. The black cami sitting on her frame ruffles slightly in the breeze and Clarke’s eyes fall to her collarbones, heaving just slightly from the exertion, sweat catching the sun and glinting with every inhale.

Green eyes look around, searching curiously with just the slightest crease between her eyebrows and the tiniest tug down at the corner of her lips.

Heat drops down Clarke's spine uncomfortably and she feels all too aware of the old, ratty vest she's wearing and the oversized check shirt sat loosely on her shoulders, almost falling off. Her fingers itch to pull it on properly, to try and make herself look respectable, as though she had showered that morning like a normal person, but the ache of her elbows reminds her of the shopping bags anchoring her to the spot. She has a sudden desire to stand beneath hot water until it runs cold.

“Nope.” Clarke answered curiously, voice scratchy. Green eyes flickered over to her, searching her, taking in the muddied Converse on her feet and the torn jean shorts on her thighs.

“No.” Her voice is soft and she blinks once, as though she was cataloging that Clarke was in fact not Gustus. “You're my neighbour.”

“Yes.”  _ For a while,  _ Clarke thinks.

The girl nods, mouth set in a serious line and she looks away from Clarke's eyes, towards the van. She makes her way out of the house, head dipping just slightly in the sunlight, moving with precise, sure steps towards the back of the van. She pulls two boxes towards her, piling them on top of each other in her arms and then she disappears back into the house, not once looking back.

Clarke finds herself stood alone in the middle of her driveway, arms straining from the weight of the shopping bags in her arms. She doesn't reappear and Clarke frowns, lips twisting in confusion. Did she say something wrong? She barely even uttered a sentence.

The sun begins to itch at her legs after a minute - and actually it's just because she feels stupid stood alone and her fingers feel like they're about to drop off - she makes her way into her parents kitchen and begins to put the shopping away.

She thinks about green eyes and chipped nail polish and a tattoo delicately wrapped around a bicep.

* * *

_ Your tenants are here,  _ Clarke tells her dad by text.

_ Great.  _ Is his reply and before Clarke can lock her phone the ellipsis blinks again.  _ Hey, kiddo, I forgot to tell you this morning, the new tenant is moving in today. _

_ Thanks for warning me, old man.  _

Clarke's stood over the stove in the kitchen when her dad finally gets home from work. She'd spent the afternoon painting - her brain felt heavy and sluggish and it spread like a fungus down to her hands, reaching to her fingertips until it felt like they were stuck together with glue, so, really, she didn't paint at all - and when she inevitably gave up she spent too long sat under the heavy fall of water from the shower head before she started to make dinner in time for her parents to get home and definitely not watching her new neighbours shifting box after box into the house.

More often than not when she glanced up to look out of the window it was the man, Gustus, bent over into the back of the van and then disappearing again. His beard is as bushy as the tattoo wrapping around his eye is unexpected and there's a harshness to the set of his brow. When she glanced up and found the girl, Clarke’s eyes followed her curiously. She walks with a steadfastness, a posture that makes Clarke jealous and hyper aware of the way she slouched where she stood.

If she straightened her spine after that realisation it was definitely for the satisfying crack of her bones and not because her eyes lingered too long on the cling of the skinny jeans to the girls hips when she walked.

So, yeah, definitely not paying attention to the neighbours moving in. Or the way the tattooed arm of the girl flexed every time she picked up a box.

“Hey, kiddo.” Her dads voice, soft and excited, echoes through from the front door and he drops a kiss to the top of Clarke's head when he makes it to the kitchen. He smells like oil and engine and comfort. “What's for dinner?”

Clarke has to tear her eyes away from the grin lighting up the tattooed face of the man and the barely there lilt of the girls lips, her grinning eyes. “Chicken.”

“On its own, or?” He teases and the loud scrape of wood on tile as he pulls out a chair behind her drowns out his laughter.

“Yeah.” Clarke nods seriously, turning to his grin. “Just a dry chicken breast each.”

He chuckles, and he deftly dodges the tea towel thrown at his head. “How long?”

“Whenever mom is ready.”

“She'll be home soon.” He promises.

When the faint sounds of the door opening can be heard from the hall ten minutes later his lips spread in a toothy grin. He stands to meet her mom, pulling her into a secure hug and dropping a light kiss to her lips. Clarke rolls her eyes lightly.

They whisper between each other quietly until her mom gently rests her hand on Clarke's shoulder and squeezes, kissing her gently on the cheek. “Smells amazing.”

“It's almost ready.”

“I think I'm going to shower.” She sounds so tired and Clarke turns around then, a weight settling on her shoulders and her stomach turns choppy. Her mom’s eyes are dulled and the bags underneath shine like bruises. Again, Clarke's mind flickers to the letters that will start to come through soon and it feels like her stomach contents have made their way up to her throat.

“It can stay warm in the oven.” Her dad’s eyes bore into Clarke's and she nods once in response. “How about we conserve water?” His arms wrap around her mom’s waist and his chin rests on her shoulder and she smiles, just slight, with a nod.

“We bought a present for the new tenant.” Her mom’s eyes flicker over to the box sat on the breakfast bar. Her dad is already pulling her out of the room. “Could you take it?”

“What happened to a cactus?” Clarke asks, spotting the brand name on the corner of the box.

* * *

“Hello.” She blinks once, carefully, and she looks shocked to see Clarke stood on her doorstep for all of a second before the emotion clears off of her face.

“Hi.” Clarke hates how her voice sounds so breathy. “I'm Clarke.” There's a blink again and Clarke's heart quickens in a desperate attempt to seem normal. “Griffin. Your neighbour.”

“I remember.” She nods, eyes never moving from their hold on Clarke's.

“Right.” Clarke nods and her shoulder pulls up in an awkward shrug. “My parents sent me around with a welcome gift.” Her hands push the box up as though the girl hadn't noticed it, as though it was anything other than obnoxious in her hands.

“Would you like to put it down?” She asks gently, the corner of her mouth ticks and Clarke thinks she's laughing at her. A sliver of indignation at the motion wedges in her chest and her jaw tenses, she nods.

The girl steps back, all long legs in cotton shorts and a baggy t-shirt, tracing the waistband of her shorts. She holds the door and Clarke hesitantly steps through, scuffing her feet on the mat. There's an awkward moment as Clarke flattens her back against the wall, trying to make herself and the box shrink so the girl can shut the door, but she doesn't seem even slightly fazed by it as she reaches a long arm around Clarke and pushes it closed. And then she's leading Clarke up the stairs, mentioning for Clarke to slip her shoes off before she goes. Her feet don't make a sound on the wooden steps and Clarke tries, but she still sounds, and feels, like a herd of elephants as she ascends.

Her shorts graze the curve of her butt, grey contrasting with pale, soft skin and Clarke suddenly finds herself intently preoccupied by the steps in front of her.

“A coffee machine.”

“Yeah.” Clarke shrugs, stepping back once she's slid the box onto the kitchen counter. “My dad really loves coffee so this is the ultimate welcome gift.”

“Thank you.” Her voice lilts softly and she offers a small smile. “I'm sorry for the mess.”

Clarke blinks away from her gaze, looking towards the tools and screws and unpacked flat-pack furniture spread out over the carpet. There's a half drained glass of red wine sat on the floor, beside the grey sofa, the bottle open on the kitchen counter, and soft, barely there music filtering into the room. The bright light bulb in the centre of the ceiling is the only thing that detracts from the lazy feeling exuding from the room.

Clarke waves a hand. “Moving is messy.” She lets the sentence trail off.

“Lexa Warren.” She - Lexa - picks it up, a faint pink rising high on her cheekbones. “You've moved before?”

Clarke watches the way her eyebrow arches curiously and her hands fold behind her back, one unconsciously reaches out to grasp the hockey stick leant against the breakfast bar that separates kitchen from living room. She spins it between long fingers and Clarke finds her tongue heavy.

“College.” Is her only answer, but then Lexa is nodding seriously, a pucker to her brow. “I just moved back.” It's an unnecessary addition, because obviously and Clarke berates herself.

“I guessed.” She's smiling again, soft, her eyes shine at Clarke in amusement. “What did you study?”

Clarke hadn't realised she'd been smiling too until she has to temper her mouth to answer. “Biology. Chemistry. Physics, math.”

She sees Lexa put two and two together and come up with pre-med. She’s right, of course, but the impressed glint in her eye makes her mom's face, tired and worn and sad, pop back up in her mind and her stomach feels like a boulder in her skin. Lexa’s smile drops and Clarke realises too late, forcing a smile back into her lips.

“That's a heavy load.” Her voice is soft again, tentative.

“Yeah.” She drags it out, hands fidgeting in front of her, quickly and overtly aware of the fact that she's stood in a strangers new home, hair still wet and definitely straggly around her face as it drys. “I should let you guys get back to.” She pauses awkwardly, frowning. “Building?”

“It's just me.” She shakes her head, hockey stick held tightly against her leg until it looks like she has her hand on her hip where it rests on the handle.

“Oh.” Clarke nods, taken aback. Her mind flashes to her father's use of the singular ‘tenant’ and the one wine glass and the one double bed set up in the corner of the room and the fact that the van has disappeared, not pulled in under the house. Heat rises in her face and she feels like an idiot for assuming.

“Gustos,” there's a tilt to the way she says his name, an accent pitched with affection. “Was just helping me move in. He's gone back home.”

“Right, of course.” Clarke nods, swallowing the awkwardness down her throat forcefully.

“Did you think?” There's an accusatory edge to her voice, it almost sounds disgusted as she lets her question trail off.

“No.” Clarke answers too quickly. “No.” She doesn't know what she assumed, but she didn't assume they were together. She begins to back towards the door at the top of the steps. “I’ll leave you in peace.”

“Gustus is my guardian.” Lexa’s lips lift ever so slightly, tiny and almost not there at all. Clarke nods, feeling Lexa follow her down the steps, intimately aware of the green eyes on her back as she bends to pull her shoes back on. “Goodnight Clarke.”

The breeze drifts up to Clarke as soon as the door opens but she thinks the goosebumps littering her skin have more to do with the proximity of Lexa in the tiny space of the porch. “Goodnight, Lexa.”

* * *

The next two weeks pass in the blink of an eye. Letters arrive stamped with her name, and they sit unopened and gathering dust on her dressing table. She vows to open them when they stop making her choke on air every time her eyes catch them.

She spends her days holed up in the spare room turned temporary studio, hands poised with a paintbrush but still nothing comes. Her ability to paint is going about as well as her ability to open letters. When she finally gets sick of trying to force paint into a design she switches to pencil and a sketchbook and leaves the studio. Her position curled up in the window seat at the corner of the kitchen doesn't leave her much room, but it doesn't matter. Her ability to sketch is going about as well as her ability to paint.

Everything just feels so stagnant. She feels like her feet have been put in cement blocks and she just can't move.

When she finally gives up attempting to create her own stuff, she makes her way outside to sit by the pool, colouring book and pencils in hand. It keeps her hands busy while her feet kick in the cool water of the pool and the sun burns her back. Most of the time she's alone, she spends hours staining her skin with a rainbow of colours and then she gets up to make her mom and dad dinner.

“Oh.”

Clarke startles, almost dropping her book in the pool. She looks over her shoulders, squinting despite the sunglasses covering her eyes. “Lexa.” She says.

“Hello, Clarke.” She's holding a towel under her arm and the costume she has on is unremarkable, navy blue, and yet Clarke's eyes are drawn to the dip of her waist. “Mr Griffin said I could use the pool.”

“Of course.” Clarke bends her knees, picking her feet out of the water.

“You don't have to move.” She's shaking her head, dropping her towel on one of the chairs. “I was just going to do some lengths. I don't want to interrupt you.” Her eyes linger on the colours staining Clarke's fingertips.

“It's okay.” Clarke nods, dropping her feet back into the pool with a splash. “It's big enough for the two of us.” Lexa's lips twitch again and she tilts her head towards Clarke in acceptance.

She wraps her fingers around the edges of her book, pushing the edge into her stomach as she watches the water level rise up Lexa’s legs, her hips, as she steps down into the pool at the opposite end. She bends her knees, lowering until the water level scrapes at her chin. The sun reflects off of the water, shining on her face in clear, shifting lights, caressing her cheekbones and shining in her eyes.

The water laps around Clarke's legs when Lexa begins to move, waves leaving goosebumps in their wake all the way up to her knee. Lexa doesn't look Clarke's way but Clarke can't stop looking Lexa's way. The downy hairs at the back of her neck, loose from the bun, stick there, darker because of the water and the muscles of her shoulders move with each stroke of her arms, visible in the open back of the costume. The shifting of her spine, the gentle and persistent kick of her legs and the way her hands shovel water out of her way propel her forwards in the pool and Clarke’s pencil taps along the edge of her book, her own feet stilled.

“You exercise a lot.” She hopes Lexa doesn't hear her, blinks her eyes for too long and prays. When opens her eyes again - not for the first time glad of the sunglasses that cover her eyes and shield her burning cheeks - Lexa is stood in the middle of the pool, considering her with serious eyes. “I see you jogging sometimes. On a morning.”

Clarke turns her head, looking into the green leaves of the trees at the end of the garden. She hasn't been watching Lexa but she has found herself very aware of her presence. She puts it down to curiosity. Innocent neighbourly awareness that has Clarke noticing that she leaves for work in a shirt buttoned up to the collar and a fitted blazer buttoned in front of her stomach, when she comes home the top button is undone and the blazer is folded nearly over her arm.

But she's never around all that much and Clarke, when she's stuck with a stilted pencil or paintbrush  in her hand, looks desperately out of the window in search of inspiration. It never comes but usually Lexa is there. Leaving on a Saturday morning on her bike with a basket on the front, full of something wrapped up neatly; when she gets home it's empty. Jogging every morning with her hair swishing in a ponytail.

“Yes.” Lexa doesn't seem fazed in the slightest and she lets her hands float in the water before her. “I like cardio.”

Clarke's mind flashes with hands and mouths and hips moving in tandem and she swallows thickly, nodding. Her eyes catch her book and in the corner, drawn roughly in purple pencil, is the ripples of water caused by a single delicate hand, unmistakable, perfect nail polish covering the nails. The paper slaps as she shuts it quickly and pulls her feet out of the water, standing. “Do you mind if I join you?”

Lexa shakes her head, lips pushed together, and Clarke thinks she sees her eyes linger lower, grazing over her chest before she turns away. A satisfied smile creeps onto her lips and she glances down, glad she wore the black bikini. She doesn't miss the way the tips of Lexa's ears tinge pink.

A gasp leaves her lips once she's submerged in the water and she definitely hears Lexa chuckle as she swims by. She hadn't thought it was this cold, but she still feels goosebumps rise on her skin under the water. She shifts about imitating a rhythm to try and warm up.

“Would you like a hair tie?” Lexa's voice is gentle behind her but she still jumps, standing straight in the water. Her wet skin immediately radiates a shiver down her spine when the breeze freezes her.

“Yes. Thank you.” Lexa hands it to her with nimble fingers and she works on pulling her hair up and not shivering so visibly. When she's finished her eyes find Lexa still stood before her, green eyes lidded and fixed on the way her stomach contracts with each shiver.

“You'll warm up once you begin to move.” Her voice is croaky and her eyes are darker when they meet Clarke's again.

“Yeah.” Clarke nods. She doesn't know why she's whispering or why her hands try to flatten her hair nervously. “This was my favourite place to be as a kid.”

“I didn't mean to assume.” Lexa's head shakes, unsure, taken aback.

“No.” Clarke speaks quickly. “I just-” she breaks off, feeling stupid. “When we were kids, Wells and I would jump off of the side to see who could make the biggest splash. He always let me win.” Her eyes trace the black makers that dye the white tile in two spots: their starting positions. “I'd spend pretty much all of my summer with a lilo in this pool.”

“That sounds like a nice way to spend the summer.” Lexa's voice draws Clarke back and she isn't smiling but her eyes are kind.

“I'm sorry.” Clarke looks down at the rippling water between them. Lexa's toes are painted to match her fingernails and Clarke's lips spread in a smile. “I'm just - being nostalgic. I wasn't expecting to move back home.”

Lexa nods and her eyes search the trees for a moment before her voice escapes. “Mine was the hockey field.” Clarke looks up then, eyes searching between Lexa's as she speaks. “It was big enough to jog around and when I didn't do that I'd hit the puck and chase after it, try and beat myself.” Clarke feels herself smiling, nodding along. “If it was raining out I’d go to the local pool.”

“I've dragged you down with me.” Clarke laughs and Lexa's eyes dart to the way her teeth poke through her lips.

“Not at all.” Lexa shakes her head, swallowing, serious. She swishes her hand in the pool, creating a whirlpool between their bodies unconsciously, and she looks pensive, so Clarke waits, watching the way her face changes as she thinks. Her eyebrows pucker and then clear and her jaw work to form words that it forgets and loses before she seems to roll her eyes at herself without actually moving. “What made you think of your childhood?”

“Y-” Clarke stops, eyes widening. She closes her lips determinedly but something in Lexa’s expression is knowing. “I'm at a bit of a crossroads and I'm not entirely sure which road to take.” She says eventually and it’s not a lie. “Plus, you know,” she shrugs, having to look away from Lexa’s sincere eyes so that she can smile and pretend it's real. “The last place I expected to be at twenty-two was back in my childhood bedroom. And as much as I love my parents they're driving me crazy.”

“Perhaps you shouldn't take either.” She flashes back quickly to Lexa and finds her eyes resolutely cataloging Clarke's face. “If you're so stuck between two options, maybe you need a third.”

“You don't strike me as the type of person to ever have not known what she's doing.” Clarke challenges, head tilting.

Lexa's head shakes. “Neither do you.”

Clarke feels a laugh bubbling up past her lips and she shakes her head, half heartedly pushing a small wave of water over to Lexa. Her mind flashes to the letters sat in her bedroom and then the smile on her mom's face after she'd told Clarke about the heart transplant that took her twelve hours and saved a fifteen year olds life. “No.” She admits.

Lexa's smile is touched with smugness and Clarke's stomach comes alive with butterflies.

“Hey, kiddo!” A wave of water splashes over her back and she tenses up, shoulders high, and gasps. “Oh, sorry, Lexa.” His giggles really don't make him sound sincere as Lexa wipes the water out of her eyes.

“Dad!” His laughs disappear into the house, echoing about and out of the patio doors. “I'm so sorry.” Her hands come up and move a wet strand of hair away from Lexa's forehead. “He's a giant idiot.” Her dad's laughter increases at her insult. Lexa's hand joins Clarke's in tucking the strand behind her ear, their fingers tangling together for a minute, eyes catching. Clarke squeezes, swallowing. “Thank you.”

“Of course.” Their hands drop into the water and float apart.

* * *

“You haven't opened your letters.” Wells’ voice is strained, forced too much to be casual that it sounds anything but. His eyes linger on the board, fixed on his white King for too long.

“Nope.” Clarke pops the ‘P’, feeling slightly less guilty when she takes one of his Knights.

“Are you-”

“Wells.” Clarke interrupts, she looks up slowly, leant forward and elbows rested on her knees, back hunched. “It's your turn.”

“I'm thinking.” He shrugs, teasing.

Clarke rolls her eyes, looking out over the pool while she waits. The water is still and calm and there's a leaf floating gently by the side. She thinks about the butterfly stroke and strong shoulders, feet that barely make a ripple. Chlorine kissed skin that sparkles in the sun and tentative eyes listening patiently. Her stomach roles with butterflies.

Lexa seems to have done nothing but work the past few days and each evening she comes home later, more tired, feet dragging up the drive a little bit more each night. Her dad tells her, with no small smile, on the nights when Clarke doesn't see. She kicked him where her feet rested on his thigh.

“Earth to Clarke.” Wells’ foot is nudging hers under the table.

“I was thinking.” She mocks, pulling her eyes back to the board.

“Yeah, not about chess.” His voice is full of amusement, knowing smirk and eyebrows raised.

“Yeah I was. I was thinking about how I'm going to kick your ass.”

“Mhm.” He nods sympathetically and watches her move a Pawn. “So when you started drooling and moaning ‘Lexa. Lexa.’ That was about chess.”

“Yep.” Clarke nods seriously, watching Wells laugh at her. “It's what I've named my Queen.”

“Oh yeah.” His faces scrunches, nodding, not trying at all to appear sincere. “I'm sure it has  _ nothing  _ to do with your recent sketches.”

Clarke feels her chest redden and when she has to flicker her eyes away, towards the trees, Wells’ hoot of triumph is enough to scatter a few birds from the trees. She rolls her eyes, moving quickly to take his Rook with a patronising smile. He shrugs, quickly moving a Pawn.

“My  _ recent sketches _ ,” she imitates his voice, “are a bunch of lines and trees.”

“Yeah. Lots of green.”

“There's no colour on my sketches, genius.”

“And yet you shade it  _ just  _ so.”

“Shut up and make a move so I can put you out of your misery.” He laughs again, contemplating the board with a frown before he moves his Queen and takes one of her Pawns.

“You know it's okay to have a crush Clarke.” His voice takes on a soft edge. “It's okay to want to never give her up.” He shakes with laughter now, grinning and she levels a glare at him. “To never let her down.”

“Piss off.”

“To never run around and desert her.”

“You know, when you're running for President, I'm going to leak that picture of you with a street cone stuck on your head.” She threatens. He nods as though he believes her and like he doesn't believe a word she says at the same time. “And that video of you stuck in the roundabout.”

“Lexa.” Clarke looks at him incredulously, jaw dropping just slightly.

“Fu-”

Clarke is cut off, a gentle voice behind her. “Hello.” Her eyes widen in Wells’ direction and though he isn't looking at her she sees the smile fighting at his lips. She feels her hands tug at the old shirt - too big and with more than a few buttons missing - it scrapes at barely mid-thigh. “Good evening, Clarke.”

“Lexa.” Clarke says quickly, spinning on her cushion to face her. She regrets it immediately, tongue suddenly feeling heavy in her mouth. The black shirt Lexa is wearing has the top two buttons open, collarbones peaking through and Clarke tries not to let her eyes linger and pushes away the way her teeth tingle, itching to bite. It's tucked into high waisted pants, hugging her hips and thighs and grazing her ankles; her feet flex in black patent heels. “Hello.”

She smiles, small and just so and her eyes don't leave Clarke's for a second before her finger, blazer hooked on it over her shoulder, twitches and she flickers to Wells, unknowing.

“This is Wells Jaha.” Clarke says quickly, gesturing to where he sits. “Wells, this is Lexa Warren. My neighbour.” She doesn't think anyone misses the stress she puts on the noun but the only reaction is Wells’ slight smirk as he stands.

“I guessed.” He smirks, holding his hand out and shaking Lexa’s. “Nice to meet you.”

“Likewise.” She doesn't smile but it doesn't look insincere and she squeezes his hand just as much as he does hers. She's the first to pull away and Clarke can't help but think of the way her hand lingered around Clarke's in the water, orbiting just out of her personal space. “Clarke told me about you.”

“Oh,” he sounds surprised and his eyebrows raise appropriately, but Clarke rolls her eyes: he already knows, he practically begged for every excruciating detail. “All good I hope.”

“She told me that you used to let her win with the biggest splash.” Clarke hasn't seen her blink since she looked away from her and her back is ramrod straight, shoulders pulled back. She doesn't look uncomfortable, her eyes sparkle when Wells chuckles and nods at her statement, flickering a momentary glance in Clarke's direction.

“Yeah.” He says and he rests an arm around Clarke's shoulders. “She's a sore loser.” Clarke rolls her eyes at him, directed at Lexa like they're sharing a secret. Her lips twitch at Clarke’s expression and she tries, Clarke can see how she tries, but her eyes drag along Wells’ arm where it rests. “Kinda hard to say no to.”

Clarke stands but she still finds herself looking up at the both of them, feeling supremely short as Lexa nears Wells’ height with her heels on. Lexa smiles at her like she knows, amusement making her mouth crooked.

“Clarke tells me that you like jogging.” Wells lets his arm drop from her shoulders, folding them in front of him promptly. Lexa's arms remain back, open, and it makes Clarke smirk, even if she's slightly horrified in Wells’ admission that she talked about Lexa after only two conversations. Lexa nods once. “Have you gone through the woods?”

“Yes, I cut through at the top of the road.” Lexa says seriously and her other hand comes to rest in her pocket, thumb on the outside. “And circle back down.”

“That's a nice route.” Wells nods and he's so kind and genuine that it brings about a slight curve to Lexa's lips. “Have you gone along the river?”

“No.” She shakes her head and she graciously listens, interested as Wells makes a promise to write out the route for Clarke to give her. “Thank you.” She says and then her eyes flicker to Clarke. “Clarke,” it's so soft and her eyes sweep over Clarke's face before she blinks and meets Clarke's eyes. “A letter came through with your name on it this morning. It must have gotten mixed up.”

“Right,” Clarke nods, she glances away, swallowing down the reluctance that clogs up her throat. “I'll come and get it.”

She makes no move and Lexa just stays silent, eyes watching her like she knows and then she nods, once, “Okay. I'll hold onto it.”

Clarke nods rapidly, breathing. “Thanks.”

“Of course.” Lexa agrees mildly and then Wells pulls her into a conversation about Kilometre to minutes ratio after he nudges Clarke's side comfortingly. She listens with interest and she tilts her head when he tells her about the time he tripped over and gained a sprained ankle; she offers up the time got a hockey stick to the head and still went jogging, she only got a few minutes in before she was sick. When Wells laughs her cheeks pull up like she's laughing too and her eyes dart to see Clarke's grin before she allows a smile to pull her lips apart. “Goodnight, Wells.” She says eventually and looks back down to Clarke, blinking. Her voice lifts, “Goodnight Clarke.”

“Night, Lexa.” She smiles slightly at Clarke and it's not really a smile at all but her eyes shine before she turns to Wells with a nod and turns on her heel. Clarke watches her go, the blazer over her shoulder swaying across her back and her hair up and out of the way, braided back in a bun.

_ “Night, Lexa _ .” Wells’ voice is high and breathy, sighing into her ear as he bends down close to her.

She slaps him on the chest and he pulls back with a choked laugh. “I'm going to leak the picture of you in my bra.”

He shrugs, purses his lips like he doesn't care and flicks his fingers, arms out, as though to say bring it.

“I'm going to wait until you get the nomination and then I'm going to leak it so you crash out against a Republican.” She shoves him away and he takes his seat again, mirroring her.

“You wouldn't.” His eyes narrow and he thinks about the time she tripped him up when they were on opposing teams for rounders in first grade.

“Stop being an ass.” She bargains. He nods and crosses his heart. “Also, stop letting me win.”

His laugh is soft and warm and he just holds his hands up in a shrug. “Okay. But I get the big spoon for the mint choc-chip.”

“No.”

* * *

There's a door that slams and it shakes in its hold as it echoes down the stairs. Clarke thinks she hears her mom complaining to her dad but she ignores it, anger still coursing through her veins, and climbs out of her window.

She situates herself on the roof, plants her feet to keep herself from slipping down and leans her arms over her knees. The stars look- no, she's still angry.

_ “Stop being so childish, Clarke.”  _ It still echoes around her head, her mom's voice, tired and annoyed.

She feels like she's sixteen again, when she'd clash with her mom every other day. They'd argue that black was blue and her dad would mediate between them, laughing at how similar they are. Right down to her position on the roof and the cigarette she holds between her fingers. Socks even weaves his way between her legs, rubbing against her shins; she tickles behind his ears and watches him arch his back, purring.

_ “Stop being so childish, Clarke.” _

She huffs, watching smoke dissipate in the night when she blows it out.

_ “Just open the letters.” _

“Clarke?”

Clarke groans, hides her head in her folded arms and wills the embarrassment away, and groans. It's silent for a long while, just the faint sounds of cars beyond the street, and she thinks that Lexa’s gone. She chances a glance up from under her lashes and finds Lexa still there, watching her with careful eyes that flicker between her feets grip keeping her steady and her face, hidden in her arm and under her hair.

“Are you okay?”

She laughs, mirthless and pulls in another drag of her cigarette heavily. Lexa's eyes flicker to the way it ignites where she watches from her window.

Clarke shakes her head, “No.” and thinks about her mom's gentle voice and warm hands and the way she just, clashed against her the way the sea clashes with the cliff edge.

“Do you want to talk about it?” She asks, soft and tentative again, like she was in the pool.

“Not at all.” Clarke snorts and it's very undignified but Lexa just blinks and nods seriously. “Thank you, though.”

“Of course, Clarke.” Her mouth shapes Clarke's name so precisely, like she holds it in her mouth like a prayer and releases it like a wish. It makes Clarke shiver.

“How old are you Lexa?” She takes another drag and can't decide if Lexa's cheeks flush for the impolite question or because green eyes flicker to the way her lips wrap around her cigarette.

“Twenty-six.” She answers anyway and let's it linger across the gap between their houses.

“I'm twenty-two.” She breathes out the smoke as she says it, revelling in the burn of release when she breathes in again.

“I know, Clarke.” She blinks.

Clarke's already nodding. “I know.”

She contemplates Clarke seriously, silent and face unreadable as her eyes scrape over Clarke's high tops and up to her messy hair, her smudged eyeliner. “Would you like some wine?”

She squints through the night, stubbing her cigarette out on a tile and flicking the butt over the edge; Socks nudges at her hand and she runs it down his spine absently. She thinks she hears Lexa gasp and when she looks back up Lexa's eyes are tearing away from him, back to her. She waits, eyes green and so, so open.

“Yeah.” She's nodding and Lexa's lips twitch.

“Okay.” She steps back from her window but she waits, eyes watching carefully until Clarke is off of the roof and back in her bedroom. When Clarke glances back out of her bedroom window Lexa is no longer stood in her own and she feels her stomach tingle with that.

She makes sure Socks is inside, makes it out of the house without reigniting the argument with her mom, even though she can most definitely smell the smoke that clings to Clarke's clothes, and ignores her dad's disapproving glance before it dissolves into a smirk when she tells them where she's going.

There's a deafening silence after she knocks and a wind that ruffles her hair out of the way she'd tamed it down. She's trying to flatten it down again - but it's short and stubborn and it doesn't comply - when she hears the gentle thuds of Lexa coming down the steps.

She's just finished pulling her jumper down, decided that her sleeves should stay at full length but they slip down over her hands, and she has to give up with her hair, when Lexa pulls the door open.

“Hello, Clarke.” She practically breathes it out and she steps to the side quickly, holding the door open.

“Hi.” And then she's following Lexa up the stairs again, her eyes fixed on the way her calves flex with each step.

Lexa's apartment is like a breath of fresh air. From the neatly made bed in the corner, to the only light warming up the room that comes from the lamp beside the couch and the white fairy lights woven between the metal head and footboard of her bed. Lexa rustles about, pulling out a glass for Clarke and filling it with red wine. Clarke feels her shoulders relax and she spies the incense stick on the windowsill, two candles surrounding it.

“Thanks.” Clarke says as Lexa hands her the glass and she follows behind, sits on the edge of the sofa beside her. She spots the opened Mac, “You're working.” and feels a little like she's intruding.

Lexa hesitates and her eyes linger on the flashing cursor on the page half filled with words before she shakes her head. “No.” She closes the lid gently and pushes the laptop across the coffee table. “I can do it in the office.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, Clarke.” She smiles and nods to emphasise her point.

“Drink your wine, Lexa Warren.” Clarke feels herself blushing and she's not exactly sure why but she mirrors Lexa when she pulls her glass to her lips and sips.

Lexa's eyes linger on the way Clarke's glass is half emptied by the first sip and her brow furrows in concern. She sloshes her own wine, spinning it in her glass and holding the stem; Clarke's mind suddenly flashes with images of Lexa in a vineyard, ridiculously beautiful and solemn. But then she looks about the room and spots the varying shades of grey bouncing off of the black tiled kitchen, the delicate fairy lights creating a soft calm, the fur cushions sat on her bed, the one behind her back, and she sees Lexa as some sort of designer, strong willed and precise. She pictures Lexa, all natural scents and hair in plaits behind the counter of an arts and craft shop when she breathes in and it's all lavender and she spies the pink flowers sat in a vase on the kitchen counter and the way the stars shine out against the black sky and in through the window.

“What's your job?” It doesn't come out as nonchalant as Clarke wanted and Lexa's eyes sparkle as she lowers her wine from her lips.

“I'm an Associate at Polis.” Her voice is prideful and her shoulders pull back at the mention.

“You're a lawyer?” Clarke thinks of Lexa's shirts and blazers and the way her black heels shine and click against the floor. She thinks about suit pants that are ironed to perfection and legs that seem impossibly long. 

The smirk that adorns her lips is all confidence. “Yes.”

“And you're an associate at twenty-six.” Clarke's voice is anything but incredulous and her eyebrow arches. This image of Lexa, stood in a courtroom demanding attention and listening carefully, seems to be the only one that fits now she can see it.

“I'm very good at what I do Clarke.” She states it so simply, like she's pointing out that the sky is blue. Clarke feels an inch of green slip down and cling to her back; she wants to have that confidence in her career, she wants to know as well as Lexa does that what she's doing is right.

“So you're working on a case.” She nods her head towards the closed laptop.

“Yes.” Lexa sits back then, turning her body to face Clarke and folding one of her feet beneath the other leg so she can turn better towards Clarke. “What’s your job?”

“I work behind a bar.” Clarke's voice is maybe too loud as she laughs but Lexa just nods while Clarke shrugs. “It pays really bad but the tips make up for it.” And then she pauses, turns narrowed eyes on Lexa. “How did you know I have a job?”

“I see you leaving every night.” Lexa shrugs and Clarke turns to mirror her position on the couch, stifling a smile.

“Every night?” She doesn't manage to keep the smile out of her voice.

Lexa smiles, hiding it in her wine glass and Clarke feels her chest warm. “Do you enjoy it?”

“Working behind a bar and coming home smelling like alcohol every night?” Clarke asks, grinning as Lexa pulls her other leg up, tucking herself sideways into the couch, her arm rests along the back and Clarke realises that her nail polish matches on both her fingers and toes again, deep burgundy and faultless. Clarke nods. “Yeah.” Lexa’s chuckle is slight but her shoulders move with it and her jumper drops off; she doesn't move to lift it back up. “Do you?”

“Yes.” Her answer is immediate, sure.

“But you don't always get the result you’ve worked so hard for.” Clarke thinks about her mom coming home paler than just tiredness and her dad running her a bath, joining her, leaving Clarke to play with her toys; and then she thinks about Lexa sat before a laptop, curled on her sofa late into the night and then getting the verdict that unravels all of her work with one or two words.

“No.” Lexa's head shakes and her eyes capture Clarke's. “But I know I do everything I can and I have to take the good with the bad.”

“How are you so calm about it? You have people's lives in your hands. They're depending on you not to fuck up.”

Lexa leans to the side, considering and her hand comes up to tangle her fingers in her hair where it's pulled back and out of her face. “I don't fuck up.” Clarke laughs, loud and shocked and she finds herself mirroring Lexa’s position, hand running through her hair, wine rested on her folded knees. She feels her throat dry at the curse slipping so easily from Lexa's tongue. “I'm very good at what I do, Clarke.”

“I have no doubt.” She thinks of all the buttons fastened on Lexa's shirt, her blazer like an armour she wears everyday.

“You sound like  _ Gustos _ .” Her voice lilts with amusement and she drains the rest of her glass before she refills it and offers Clarke the same.

“He's your guardian.” Clarke remembers.

“Yes.” She nods and for the first time an unrestrained smile pulls at her lips, her cheeks dimple and her teeth poke into her bottom lip.

“You love him.”

“I’ve known him most of my life.” Lexa nods. “He taught self defence to kids in the system and I became a part of the class once I was old enough.”

Clarke smiles, she can almost picture Lexa, tiny and fierce in the middle of other kids, the determined tilt to her chin. “And he adopted you?”

“No.” Clarke feels her heart stutter but Lexa just shakes her head. “He fostered me when I was thirteen and I timed out.”

“You timed out?” Clarke asks, frowning. “So you turned eighteen before someone adopted you?”

“Yes. I was considered an adult from that point onwards. Gustus let me stay with him.” She must see something in Clarke's face because her head tilts and she frowns seriously, fingers tightening in her hair. “I wouldn't change it. My biological parents were too young to have a child and Gustus is a very good man.”

She sips at her wine again then, leaves her head tilted in her hand and her eyes watching Clarke carefully. The silence doesn't feel like it's dragging, there's a comfort about it and Clarke realises that Lexa has that music playing again, soft and unobtrusive as it filters gently.

“He’s a big man.” She says finally, voice quiet.

“Hm?” Lexa's voice vibrates all the way down Clarke's spine, leaving a shiver in its throaty path.

“Gustus.”

“Wells is almost as tall.” She brings her wine up to her lips and says just loud enough for her voice to carry over the rim where it covers her lips. “You make a beautiful couple.”

“Oh.” Clarke tries hard not to choke on the wine as she swallows it, shaking her head quickly. “No. Wells and I aren't- you're laughing.”

She doesn't know if it should be counted as a laugh because the action is so small but it's undeniably Lexa's unique laugh. Her shoulders move ever so slightly and her head shifts in her hand, her eyes crinkle and though she tries to hide it behind her glass, her teeth poke through in a grin. The sound, small and barely there, carries straight to Clarke's ears, light and free and infectious.

“You weren't serious.” Lexa shakes her head. “You were teasing me.” She nods and Clarke gasps. “This is retribution for me assuming about Gustus.”

“Blood must have blood, Clarke.” She shrugs and Clarke sinks further back into the couch at the action, feet shifting where they rest on the sofa and back against the arm, facing Lexa sat in the same position.

“A practitioner of the law promoting revenge?” She gasps.

“Is that not what a custodial sentence is? Capital punishment?” She smirks, confident and powerful.

Clarke laughs. “You're the expert.” And her eyebrow raises challengingly. “You tell me.” Lexa’s eyes blink slowly and when they open they're darker, she swallows a little bit heavier than before.

“They have a dual purpose.” She responds finally, the tips of her ears red.

Clarke’s lips tug up at the edges and she nods. “Anyway, I think Wells loves Socks more than me.”

“Socks?”

She points vaguely towards the ceiling. “The cat.”

“And he's called Socks.” Clarke nods. “But he didn't have any markings.” The confusion on Lexa's face makes Clarke's heart skip a beat; the way her brows pull together and her lips part.

“Not on his feet, no.” Lexa's confusion increases and Clarke smiles. “My dad thought it was funny.” The confusion on Lexa's face clears but Clarke just shrugs, eyes darting to Lexa's fingers wrapped around the stem of her wine glass. “When we got him I just found out what ‘oxymoron’ meant. I kept saying it and he thought it would be funny to tease me.”

She doesn't need to look up to know Lexa is smiling that smile again, all teeth and dimples, but she does just because she wants to see it. She returns it with butterflies spiralling in her stomach.

“I think Wells is very fond of you, Clarke.”

“I hope so.” Clarke laughs and Lexa refills their glasses until the bottle is empty. “I've known him from the minute I was born.”

“That sounds very fortunate.”

“A ready made best friend.” Clarke nods. There's a flush she can feel in her cheeks from the wine but her eyes linger on the way half a bottle of wine stains Lexa's lips and makes her eyes shine. “Thelonious Jaha went to university with my mum and dad and they stayed close.”

Lexa nods and twirls her glass, watching the way the red stains slowly dissipate down the glass in each wave's wake. “I had Costia.” She pronounces her name like she does Gustus’: with such unwavering care. Clarke waits for her to continue, eyes watching Lexa's face work out her words. “Not from birth but it felt as long.”

“You loved her.”

“Yes. Very much.” Lexa's lips purse before she takes another sip. “She was my first love.”

Clarke's stomach bottoms out and her heart thuds in her chest and she has to keep her jaw from dropping. There's a wave of fresh air that goes through her and her eyes drop to the way Lexa's chest expands as she takes a deeper breath. Lexa's eyes shine, unable to break away from Clarke's face, prone. She realises she's been quiet too long when Lexa's shoulders pull taut and she breaths in a lungful of lavender scented air. “What happened?”

“Sometimes you grow apart.” Lexa doesn't relax, not in the slightest, she seems to fight against the way the wine runs through her veins and makes her sluggish.

Clarke nods. “Mine was Finn.” She drops her hand across the couch, trying to reach across the gap that has appeared, wide and open between them on the couch. “Except he cheated on me and we were only together for about four months.” She pauses. “It felt long enough.”

Lexa nods like she gets it and her shoulders drop a centimetre. Her throat works like she wants to take a sip of her wine, but she doesn't even blink. Clarke's heart thuds and it's painful.

She forces a casual shrug. “But if it wasn't for him I wouldn't have met Niylah.” Niylah wasn't at all serious, a one night stand when she went out and got drunk one night in her attempt to recover from Finn’s easy charm and cocky smirk.

She sees Lexa's eyes search her own and she tries to project what she's trying to say with them. Lexa still hasn't blinked. “Niylah was-”

“A she.” Clarke answers quickly, nodding. “I'm bisexual.”

Lexa's shoulders drop immediately and she blinks, once, but she blinks. She nods and sips at her wine before she lowers it and swallows and blinks again. “I'm a lesbian.”

“Great.” Clarke laughs, she shakes her head and her hair falls into her face slightly. “So the weather…”

And Lexa's laughing that laugh again, silent and yet so loud to Clarke. She ducks her eyes and runs her finger around the rim of her wine glass. “I'm sorry.” She meets Clarke's eyes sincerely. “I thought you were having an issue.”

“You don't have to apologise for that.” Clarke says quickly, watching the way Lexa falls back into the couch, levelling her eyes to Clarke's height. “At all.”

Lexa's lips pull up and she nods. They sip at their wine again and Clarke's eyes wonder around the room in the comfortable silence. She spots the hockey stick beside her bed, leant against the wall and there's a book on the floor beside it, she can't see the title but it's thick and old and discoloured. There's a picture sat in the corner of the windowsill, Lexa, Gustus and another woman, all pulling a funny face; Lexa's tongue sticks out and her eyes are screwed shut, Clarke's stomach rolls and her fingers itch to look at it closer, to absorb all the details.

When her eyes look back to Lexa, she’s glancing at her watch on her wrist and the nearly empty glasses they sit on their folded knees.

“Should I make my way home?” Clarke asks knowingly.

Lexa looks reluctant, her eyes lingering on the burned out incense and the puddle of wax dried on her windowsill. “I have to be in the office early for this case.”

“It's okay.” Clarke pulls herself standing, finishing her wine in a gulp before she sets it on the table and turns to find Lexa stood beside her. “I already interrupted your night.”

Lexa follows behind her again as she makes her way down the steps and bends to pull her shoes back on. “Not at all.” She promises sincerely. “I enjoyed it.”

“Well I'm glad.” Clarke smiles, her eyes dart to Lexa’s lips, stained deep red by the wine, and then back to her eyes, illuminated by the bright LED bulb above them. “Thank you.”

“Goodnight, Clarke.” Lexa wishes, pulling the door open with a smile.

Clarke steps out and shivers against the night as she turns back around to Lexa, shining in the doorway, face wine flushed. She leans up on her toes and places a quick, soft kiss to Lexa's cheek. “Goodnight, Lexa.”

She spins then, directing herself back to her own home, fighting the way the alcohol running through her veins mixes with the heady feeling of  _ Lexa, Lexa, Lexa  _ that spreads from her lips to every nerve ending in her body. She doesn't look back but she can feel Lexa's eyes on her back until she shuts the door behind her and then she almost falls back against it, blowing out a heavy breath.


	2. Chapter 2

_ You know how I hate to say it _ .

_ So don't.  _ Clarke taps it out, knowing it's useless.

_ I told you so. _ _   
_ _ You're screwed. _

_ Screw you.  _ Clarke rolls her eyes and when Wells’ reply is just three laughing emojis. She can virtually hear his laugh.

Clarke looks at her sketch pad, the cupid's bow lips, parted and drawn with delicate strokes of her pencil, the strong jaw line. It fades out after that, but it's undeniable, even to Clarke, whose lips they are. She groans, loud and petulant as she throws her pad to the end of her bed.

_ You talked about her legs the first time you mentioned her. _

She flails about until she's laying in her back, staring at her ceiling. “Wells.” She almost moans as soon as he's picked up.

_ “How long has she lived next to you again?”  _ He asks and though he sounds sympathetic there's an edge of teasing.

“A month.” Clarke shuts her eyes. “She moved in a month ago.”

_ “And last night she invited you around for wine?”  _

“Yeah.” Clarke hates how she can hear the smile in her voice.

_ “Jesus, Clarke.”  _ He teases knowingly.

“I know!” She protests, a hand coming up to rub her eyes. “We didn't even get the chance to talk about much, she had to be up early for a case.”

_ “A case?”  _ His voice perks and she pictures a meerkat stood on its hind legs, noseying.  _ “She's a lawyer?” _

“Yep.” Clarke pops the ‘P’. “An Associate at Polis.”

_ “Polis Law?”  _ There's an excitement to his voice, she can hear the furrow in his brow and the way his back straightens even more.  _ “With Indra Flemming and Titus Shaw?” _

“Yeah.”

_ “You googled as soon as you got home didn't you?”  _ Clarke doesn't even have to confirm it for him to know and his laugh filters through the speakers.  _ “They're amazing, Clarke.”  _ He sounds all kinds of wistful. “ _ When I was a Harvard Law, Kane set me onto them. They have such a huge success rate it's only rivalled by Wallace and Son and even then Polis outranks them three to one. Azgeda doesn't even come close.” _

Clarke read this all last night, laid in her bed in the dark while sleep evaded her and her nerves still buzzed. She found the picture of Indra Flemming, sat behind her desk, fierce and unsmiling, staring straight down the camera lens; Titus Shaw was a different story entirely, cold and harsh and scowling, his eyes seemed to stare past the camera. ‘Titans’, she can't count how many times she saw that word associated with them. Titans.

_ “And Lexa is an associate at. What? Twenty-four?” _

“Six.”

_ “Twenty-six.”  _ He corrects and he blows out steam with a long breath.  _ “Jesus, Clarke.” _

She thinks about Lexa’s defined dignitary, the way she blinks so rarely and her jaw holds regality within its strong line. “Yeah.”

_ “You're screwed.” _

“You told me already.” She rolls her eyes and tugs at her hair. “Wells.”

_ “Listen, she has me sold.”  _ She groans and he tuts.  _ “Tell me what you talked about last night then.” _

“We talked about her guardian. Gustus. We talked about you. Socks. I came out to her, she came out to me.” Clarke swallows and thinks about way maroon painted nails burrowed under her hair, fingers tangled in her hair. Dimples appeared on her cheeks when she smiled. “I kissed her cheek before I left.” She touches a finger to her own lips and they spark at the contact, a poor man's imitation of the way Lexa sent a current through her.

_ “You didn't tell me  _ that. _ ”  _ There's a voice that interrupts him in the background and he promises a muffled,  _ “I'll be right there.”  _ before he redirects to Clarke in a scandalised voice.  _ “What was her reaction?” _

“I don't know.” Clarke admits, biting her lip and wishing that she'd glanced back, once, just long enough to wager whether Lexa was disgusted or amused or shocked or, anything really.

_ “You don't know.”   _ Wells deadpans.  _ “You ran away didn't you?" _

Clarke's silence is answer enough and he tuts again. “I know.”

_ “Well did she seem into you when you were sat on her sofa?” _

“I don't know.” Clarke answers honestly. She thinks about Lexa's smile and the way she played with her hair, the way she laughed and her eyes watched Clarke. “I think so.”

_ “How are you one of the most mature people I know and yet you're still so bad with feelings?”  _ He jokes.

“Do we need to talk about your fling with Bellamy?”

_ “I have to go.” _ He laughs.  _ “Try not to have an aneurysm while you agonise over her.” _

“I hate you.”

_ “Love you.” _ The line clicks dead and Clarke locks her phone, sliding it across her covers and away from her.

She blinks up at the ceiling and when it blurs out of focus she can't be bothered to focus it back in. She feels a surge of curiosity, she hadn't seen Lexa leave that morning and she hopes, wants to make sure, that Lexa didn't get up too early to make up for the lost time. Her heart jumps again when she thinks of the conflicted look on Lexa's face as she contemplated her work; the frown that pulled her eyebrows together and her teeth that pulled at her cheek and then her fidgeting fingers that shut the laptop with a finality. A sigh escapes her lips and Clarke wants to have Lexa's dedication when her eyes open and she finds letters still sat on her desk, collecting dust.

One conversation and one of the most abundantly clear things Clarke knows about Lexa is her unwavering dedication to her job.

Her bed groans as she sits up, eyes still fixed on her dust coated letters. She thinks about Lexa's surety and confidence and the pride she takes in her job and her jaw locks as she stands.

They're heavier than she remembers, thin and holding so much within them. She blows the dust away and winds up squinting through the mites, trying not to choke on the air that surrounds them. Her finger runs over the seal, smooth and uncrinkled.

The door slams downstairs and she nearly drops the letters altogether, fingers rushing to save them.

A thud as a bags dropped heavily on the floor. “Clarke?” Her mom's voice echoes up from the bottom of the stairs.

Clarke nearly runs out of the room; she does scurry away from the letters she drops back into her desk.

* * *

“Clarke?”

“Mm.”

“Clarke.”

“What?”

She doesn't look up, doesn't even realise she's answered. Her bottom lip is bitten red and held between her teeth and her fingers are stained black from the charcoal. Her eyes remain fixed and unmoving on the pad resting on her knees.

Abby taps her feet where they rest on the couch and looks down at her daughter, frowning in concentration. When she finally looks up, meets her mom's eyes, she scowls at the interruption.

“What?”

“Don't snap at me Clarke, please.” 

Clarke averts her eyes, staring blankly at the muted TV and the mouths that move without sound. She clenches her jaw, still feeling the anger from their argument last night.

“Clarke.” Her mom sighs and rubs at her forehead. Her eyes close for a moment, tired despite clocking off early. Her mouth twists when her eyes open again and brown eyes are resigned. “Can you take the trash out for me please?”

“Yeah. Sure.” Clarke stands quickly, dropping her sketch onto the coffee table and striding into the kitchen to pick up the black bag. She doesn't look back at her mom the whole way.

The bin lid clatters when she shuts it and she spends a minute glaring at it hatefully. Her mom’s been lingering all day and Clarke hasn't yet had enough to to get over the way her mom demeaned her last night, told her she was being stupid,  _ acting like a kid.  _ She growls. Maybe she'd have been fine if her mom hadn't decided that she should take the rest of her day off to spend it crowding her daughter. Maybe she'd have been fine if her mom hadn't made her feel like she only ever had one career path. Maybe she'd have been fine if she could just sulk and not draw.

“Clarke?”

Logically she knows that maybe it has everything to do with her own indecision. It has everything to do with her mom unknowingly catching her looking at her letters since the first time the arrived.

“Are you okay?”

She should recognise the voice, at any other moment she would, but there's a ringing in her ears that grows louder, shriller, the more she ruminates on her mom's words.  _ You're being stupid, stop acting like a child and grow up. _

Her glare is directed at the voice, heavy and dark and a whole morning and afternoons worth of annoyance. She finds Lexa, shirt buttons opened down to her chest and blazer folded over her arms. She looks taken aback for a moment, wide eyes blinking quickly and shoulders pulling back.

“Lexa.” Clarke clears her expression with a blink. “You're back.”

“Yes.” She nods, eyes searching Clarke's face.

“Sorry.” Clarke flushes, looking down at her shirt -Wells’ that she stole before she went away to college - cringing at the paint stains, the sleeves rolled up to her elbows. Her arms fold in front of her and the black charcoal that stains her hands spreads further up her arms. “I just. Tough day.” She waves a hand, trying to shoo away her mom's scowl.

“You too.” She jokes, mouth tilting as she leans back on her leg, knee bending. Her head tilts interestedly.

“Your case?” Clarke asks. Her gut lurches with the thought that it's her fault, that she distracted Lexa.

“Yes.” Lexa nods. “It's proving more difficult than Titus foresaw when he gave it to me. He's spent the day trying to get me to hand it back over.”

Clarke thinks about the bald man with the cold stare and she suppresses a shiver. “And you refused.” Clarke guesses knowingly. Lexa nods, smiling.

“What happened with your day, Clarke?” She seems so genuinely interested, her head tilting to the side again and she flattens her blazer against her stomach where it hangs over her arm. Her eyes search Clarke's face so carefully, looking for even the slightest sign of discomfort and a crease appears between her brows with the concentration.

“My mom.” Clarke heaves a sigh, she finds a hand rubbing at her forehead. “She's spent the whole day smothering me, trying to apologise for last night.”

“Last night?” She prods gently.

“We had an argument. About my letters.”

“Ah.” Lexa's mouth tilts and she smiles, crooked. “Gustus was the same. He'd rent my favourite movie and then make us both write out how we felt so we could know how the other felt. He felt it worked better than interrupting each other.”

“Smart.” Clarke praises, she feels a smile pulling at her lips as Lexa grins. “Maybe I should try that with my mom.”

“Gustus will be pleased to hear it.”

“Well, now I'm definitely going to do it.” Clarke follows Lexa's laugh, light and quiet as her eyes crinkle.

“Good.” Lexa says, genuine, when her laugh tapers off. Her eyes skate over Clarke's lingering smile slowly and then she blinks herself out of it, breathing in deep. When she looks back up to meet Clarke eyes again her face is set, serious. “I enjoyed last night.”

Clarke fights the pleased smile that pulls at her lips as she nods. “Me too.”

“I'm glad.” She looks down, and her eyebrows raise as she lets a smile lighten her face.

“We’re both glad.” Clarke’s laughter bubbles up and her arms drop by her sides. “We’ll have to do this again sometime, it seems like we both make each other happy.”

Clarke's face flushes furiously, and her jaw drops, tongue feeling suddenly heavy in her mouth. Her throat dries out and she averts her wide eyes, looking to her house. Her mouth works, trying to form words but she can't even remember how to pronounce her own name. She can't seem to look away from Lexa.

“Yes.” Lexa's lips shine with lip gloss, sticky and pink and inviting. Her voice is low, and there's a croaky edge to it.

“I should go.” Clarke gasps out, she points a thumb over her shoulder, already backing away. “I have to clean up before dinner.” She holds her stained black hands up as evidence before she spins around and practically runs into her house.

She only just catches the gentle, “Good evening, Clarke.”

This time she does fall back against it and her head hits it with a thump as her eyes slip closed. Faintly she can hear her mom's voice, lilted but not quite light enough to follow through with the joke, echoe with a  _ “I thought you'd ran away.”  _ but it's drowned out by Clarke’s groan.

She did run away. Again.

She groans louder, grinding her head back against the door and kicking her heel back against it and for the second time in as many days she feels sixteen again. Her heart thuds and she can feel her face burning up a bonfire, stealing all the oxygen from her throat.

“Clarke?” Her mom shouts from the living room and Clarke pulls herself up straight, marching into the kitchen.

Lexa says her name so precisely.

Clarke faintly smells dinner cooking in the oven, her favourite, but she ignores it in favour of washing her hands under the scalding water. She puts too much soap on her hands and there's too many bubbles that overflow between her fingers, spilling out and slipping away. She focuses on trying to catch them rather than her mom appearing at her back.

“What's wrong?”

“Not now, mom.” Clarke sighs, hunched over the sink.

“Clarke.”

“Mom.”

Her mom huffs. “Here.” Clarke hears the sharp slap of something hitting the kitchen counter behind her and then her mom is stood at her side, adjusting the temperature of the water and gently taking Clarke's hands between her own. Clarke can feel the calluses and the wear of years of perfected control in the muscles that massage her hands clean. “What happened?”

“Nothing.” Clarke eyes don't move from the way her mom rubs at her fingers, gentle and firm and it's an entire persona for her mom to be calm and controlled. She wonders how long it tools for her to perfect - Clarke can't remember any different.

“Is it about Lexa?” She fails at trying to sound nonchalant and when Clarke's eyes flicker to her, her mom's brown eyes are fixed too determinedly on her work in the sink. “You left your sketch book open.”

Clarke looks back over her shoulder and she spots the book, open on her drawing from earlier. “Mom.” She groans. It's of Lexa from last night, soft and warm, curled sideways on the couch so that she faces Clarke. Her hand is curled in her hair with her head rested on it, her wine sits on her folded knees and her eyes are downcast, a smile lingering about her lips. Nothing about it captures Lexa’s beauty and yet it still makes Clarke’s heart thunder.

“I'm sorry.” She’s smiling now. “I've always loved your art Clarke.”

Clarke can't help it, a snort bursts past her and she rolls her eyes.

“I have, Clarke.” She squeezes Clarke's hands as though to emphasise the point and her eyes dull as though her heart shatters at the very implication of not. “You draw so beautifully. I still have the first ever picture your drew me, it-”

“Sits on your desk.” Clarke nods, guilty. “I know.”

She seems to ruminate over something for a while, frowning down at her hands as they scrub at the same spot, and then she sighs, heaving a deep breath. “I'll support you whatever your decision is.” She promises, voice pleading. “I know I'm not the best at showing it, but whatever you chose I just want you to be happy.”

Clarke purses her lips, nodding. She blinks away the burning behind her eyes. “You want me to go to med-school though.”

“Because I thought it's what you wanted.” Abby’s voice is croaky, desperately loud. “Every Christmas all you wanted was a doctor's kit. ‘I want to be like you when I'm big mommy.’ And every Christmas morning you'd open it with the biggest smile on your face, and your father would be your patient.”

“He'd sit through Christmas dinner with bandages wrapped around his head.” Clarke nods, laughing waterly. “I remember.”

“When did you grow up, Clarke?” Her voice cracks and her hands still, holding Clarke's in the warm water, there's no more charcoal there but she holds on tightly, like she trying to hold onto Clarke. “Whatever you decide Clarke, I will always be bursting with pride.”

“Mom.” She sounds so much like her mom when her voice breaks.

“So go to med-school or don't.” She shrugs, heavy. “Just do it because it's what you want.”

Clarke nods, eyes burning and she blinks it rapidly away, pulling her hands out of the water and turning the tap off. She reaches for a towel and dries her hands. “Thanks.” She hands her mom the towel.

“Your dad always tells us that we’re too much alike.” They share a laugh and then her mom is turning around and wiping her eyes with her back to Clarke.

The oxygen rushes past her lips and she breathes in, light, for the first time in weeks. She hadn't realised she'd become so heavy, but her spine feels less like it's curved and her shoulder don't feel pulled taught.

Her fingers drum along the kitchen island until they slide along the paper of her drawing.

Clarke looks down at her drawing and Lexa's smile. It doesn't come close to the real thing, she's emphasised it too much and Lexa is all subtleties, soft and quiet and strong; but her heart still thumps behind her ribs and her eyes linger on Lexa's unconscious smile and her lidded eyes, the darker set of her cheeks. She chokes on the air in her lungs.

“Do you want to talk about that?” Her mom's voice makes her jump and she points a finger to where Clarke's looking.

“No.” Her laugh is forced and she closes her pad quickly, the slap of the paper too loud in the kitchen, running it upstairs and throwing it on her bed.

Her eyes catch her letters on her way out again. She pauses at her dresser, picks up her letters again, weighting them in her hands. They feel lighter and heavier; they hold the entire weight of her future within them. Part of her wants to open them and a part of her wants to bury them in the backyard under the secrecy of the night. She stares at them, trying to see through the envelope for a moment before she puts them down neatly, straightening them into a pile and tearing her eyes away.

When she gets back down the stairs her dad is home, and his arms are wrapped securely around her mom's waist, hers around his neck. He pulls his lips away from hers and looks towards Clarke. “My favourite girl’s made up.” Her mom leans her head against his chest, grinning and he leads her into a gentle sway. “I love peace and harmony.”

“Haha.” Clarke rolls her eyes.

He crab walks over to her, pulling her mom along in his arms, and pulls Clarke into the middle so she's sandwiched between them. She groans and she mumbles, but she can't fight the smile.

“Three musketeers.” He rumbles proudly, dropping a kiss to her head.

“Dork.” Her mom teases.

* * *

“Hey, babe.” Jake drops a kiss onto his wife's head, smiling as her shoulders pull up and she nuzzles into it. “Smells good.” She shoves him away playfully, rolling her eyes and giving in when he just tightens his hold around her waist. “Kiddo.” He nods to Clarke sat at the island.

“Dad.” She doesn't look up, brow furrowed as her fingers smudge the charcoal of her drawing.

“You're really digging the charcoal lately, huh?” Something sizzles in the pan and he leaves Abby by the stove to pull a stool out beside Clarke.

“Yeah.” Clarke's finger stalls over the page and she covers it by blowing some dust away. “It's nice to be digging anything.”

“New muse?” He isn't at all casual as he sways as though to bump her shoulder and then thinks better of it. He settles for gently ruffling her hair.

Abby laughs and Clarke saves a glare for her mom before she directs one to her dad. “Funny.”

“I know.” He nods, proud. “So, say that your mother and I invited your muse for dinner.”

Clarke feels her face freeze and her shoulders pull up, she makes sure her fingers keep their movement even if her fingers whiten at the adde pressure. Her dad's eyes burn into the side of her face and she refuses to look up. “What?” She asks, shrugging. “You conjured up the entity of inspiration and wondered if it liked chicken goujons and just decided to invite it to dinner on the off chance?”

Her mom snorts by the hob and turns around to lean down on the island in front of Clarke.

“Yep.” Her dad pops the ‘P’ and Abby’s face splits in a fond grin. “She's quite a looker, wouldn't you say Ab?”

“Yes.” She's nodding, smiling crookedly at how similar her daughter and husband are. “Beautiful.”

“Green eyes, brown hair. Tattoos.” He pretends to hesitate and the concerned frown on his face is marred by the amusement in his eyes. “There's one on her arm that looks  _ exactly  _ like that.” Clarke closes her sketchbook, and raises an unimpressed eyebrow at her dad. “She hardly ever smiles, but she has these cheekbones.”

“You can shut up now.”

“And this jaw line.” His voice takes on the scandalised pitch of a teenager and when she looks up he's sharing amused glances with her mom.

“Please tell me you didn't.” She hates that her voice sounds so pathetic and her shoulders drop. She wants to loll her head back dramatically.

Her mom pats her hand and her dad pulls her into his chest with an arm around her shoulders. “We just figured that our daughter knows our tenant more than we do.” She closes her eyes, holding her breath. “Although I don't think we want to get to  _ know  _ her like you do, Clarke.”

“Dad.” She shoves him away and his laughs rumble around the kitchen, grating on her nerves. She clenches her jaw.

“And besides you're talking every night. It's embarrassing.”

“It's not embarrassing.” Her mom sticks up for her, a warning glance in Jake’s direction. He holds his fingers up, a minuscule space between thumb and forefinger. “No.” She points him out of the room until he disappears to clean up for dinner with a laugh that shakes his shoulders.

“Why?” Clarke rounds on her mother.

“Because she's our tenant.” There's a shrug and an eye roll and Clarke waits. “And also because your dad told me that every evening when he gets home you're talking to her on the drive.”

“I like the fresh air.”

“This way you get to come off as less peeping neighbour and more friendly, approachable neighbour.” Her mom isn't at all convinced by Clarke's cold stare. 

Her shoulders drop when her mom continues to stare at her. “Is it that bad?”

“Lexa does most definitely not see it that way.” She shakes her head and she grins when Clarke's face lights up, her back straightens. “Do you want to go get cleaned up?” Clarke nods, looking down at her pyjamas. “Go.”

Clarke thuds up the stairs, throws her sketchbook onto her unmade bed and turns to her wardrobe.

Shit, what does she wear?

It's not a date - her parents are going to be there. She can't wear a dress - that's too... and besides she doesn't have any dresses that aren't tight and black and very booby.

Jesus, her parents are going to be there. Her dad.

She's getting way ahead of herself. She's only kissed Lexa's cheek.

Her eyes skate over the clothes hung up on hangers, the clothes thrown on her floor. What does she wear? She hasn't got anything.

Shit. She needs to wash her hands.

The water is too hot when she scrubs at them quickly and it leaves her palms slightly raw. She changes her mind on her clothes three times before she realises she's pushing it for time and throws on what she’d decided on first. When she reaches the bottom of the steps, too quick on the balls of her feet, she almost crashes into her mom and she rests her hands on her shoulders to catch her.

“Do I look okay?”

“You look fine, Clarke.” Her mom soothes easily, eyes flickering over the skinny jeans and oversized check shirt that sits loose on her, open maybe a few too many buttons. “Dinner’s ready.”

“Right.” Clarke nods, wiping her palms on her backside and following her mom into the kitchen.

Lexa is already there, talking quietly to her dad where they sit at the kitchen table. Her head is tilted ever so slightly in interest at what her dad is saying and her hands sit folded on the table before her, ankles crossed together under the table. She's wearing an oversized cream jumper, fluffy and begging to hang off of her shoulder, slipping over her skin. Her hair is pulled back into a loose bun, tendrils framing her face and somehow the softness of her hair pulls Clarke's eyes to her lips. Plump and unmoving, they shine just slightly and Clarke knows she's wearing lipgloss. She wonders if it has a taste and then green eyes turn to her.

Her lips tug upwards and she blinks. “Clarke.” Her legs move as though to stand but she stops herself at the last minute.

“Hi.” She hates how her voice comes out loud, too nervous, too on edge.

“Look what Lexa brought.” Her dad pulls himself up from the table with a huff and hands her a glass of wine, pushing her in her back until she steps closer to the table and has to sit opposite Lexa.

“I owe you two bottles of wine now.” She laughs, Lexa's eyes catch hers again and she can't look away, doesn't even want to.

Lexa smiles, shakes her head. “This one is a gift.”

“The first one isn't?” Clarke's head tilts and her mouth quirks in a smirk.

“Perhaps I'll leave it as a favour to call in.” Lexa smiles, shoulder pulling up in a shrug.

Clarke laughs and she hadn't realised she'd leant in on the table, but she leans her elbows on it. “Just let me know.”

“Noted.” Lexa nods once, tongue wetting her lips.

“I hope you like chicken goujons, Lexa.” Her mom's voice is too loud to her ears and the oven shuts with a slam. Clarke jumps back, blinking away and from her periphery she sees Lexa’s back pull straight.

“Yes.” Her eyes look towards Abby. “Would you like any help?”

“No.” Jake laughs. “You're our guest. Keep Clarke from burning her hand again.”

“That wasn't my fault.” Clarke protests, she turns to defend herself to Lexa, jaw set determinedly, and finds Lexa already watching her. Her green eyes shine with amusement and she pulls her glass of wine to her lips to hide her smile. “That was - it was my dad's fault.” She stutters over her words, blinking and finding the indignation gone.

Lexa's eyebrows raise disbelievingly and her glass doesn't move, still hiding her lips.

“It was!” Clarke protests, her cheeks flushing hotly. Lexa nods, still smiling, eyes scanning over Clarke’s face. Clarke feels the indignation slip back in and she leans forward to make her point, jaw setting. “I was making dinner and he got a call from Kane and apparently his best friend is more important than his daughter.” Her dad makes a small, agreeing noise and Abby shakes her head. “He walked into me and I had to catch myself on the oven shelf.” She holds her hand up, showing Lexa the new, pink skin on her palm.

“I believe you.” Lexa nods, her smile lingers but she frowns as her eyes rove over the mark on her palm carefully, concerned. Clarke feels a single butterfly erupt in her stomach but then Lexa's turning back to face her parents, chin rising. “How is Mr Kane?”

Clarke flashes between her parents, moving around each other seamlessly as they plate up dinner, to Lexa, sat waiting, hands stilled before her. “Mr Kane?”

Her mom nods. “Marcus was Lexa's lecturer.” Her eyes divert to Lexa and she offers a comforting smile. “He's fine, still teaching. He asks about you, I think he misses his favourite student.”

Lexa's eyes divert modestly and she shakes her head. “He's a very good teacher.”

“You went to Harvard Law?” Clarke interrupts her dad, seeing the way Lexa pulled back into herself. Green eyes find Clarke's quickly, flashing before they blink and the emotion is gone again. She nods, once, stiff.

“Graduated a whole year early.” Her dad chuckles and Clarke feels her head shake fondly at his ability to feel shock even though he's an engineer for NASA and he spends days literally doing rocket science.

Clarke looks back to Lexa, sees the proud tilt to her head, the way she sits tall and quirks her lips in an imitation of a smile.

“I think Marcus cried the day she left.”

Clarke's eyes don't leave Lexa's and she sees the slight pull down at the corner of her lips and the way her legs shift uncomfortably under the table. She frowns, wondering why the personal praise makes her feel uncomfortable. She jumps forward anyway. “I think Marcus cries anytime a student leaves.”

Abby laughs, settling plates into the table and Jake follows behind with the last two. “Of course he does.” She shakes her head fondly as she sits down.

“Enjoy.” Jake says, already cutting into his meal.

Lexa eats delicately - although, delicately isn't exactly the right word for it. She eats precisely, like everything she does. She cuts and she doesn't rest her elbows on the table and she doesn't put her knife or fork down and she doesn't speak with a mouthful of food. When she asks for water, she protests when Jake jumps up to get it and quiets when he waves his hand in dismissal. She answers every question her parents throw at her with grace and sidesteps the personal ones with dignity.

“What made you stick with Warren after Gustus adopted you?” Her dad asks and Clarke chokes on a potato. “Why not Woods like him?”

“I like Warren.” Lexa answers evenly and her eyes deftly avoid Clarke's.

“Well it's as good a reason as any.” Lexa offers a nod.

“Lexa,” Clarke says suddenly, her voice coming out louder than intended. She clears her throat. “What made you move here?” She points in the general direction of Lexa's home and hopes this topic is enough to get Lexa's shoulders to drop an inch.

“Mr Kane put me in contact with your parents and they offered a reasonable price.”

Clarke worries for a second that the topic of Marcus is enough to make Lexa uncomfortable again, but green, green eyes meet Clarke's and blink, her shoulders drop minimally and she offers a genuine twitch of her lips.

“Well, we’re just happy to have a quiet tenant.” Abby supplies, clearing the plates and piling them in the sink.

“Of course.” Lexa's head bow is stiff but she looks sincere. “Can I help?”

“Nope.” Jake’s head shakes determinedly. “Clarke can wash up later.”

“I can?” She asks stubbornly, eyebrows raising challengingly.

“You know the rules.” He tuts, rolling his eyes in Lexa's direction. “Whoever cooks doesn't have to clean.”

“So then you can dry, Jacob.” Abby whips his backside with a towel and smiles as she leans around him to pick up Lexa's and Clarke’s plates.

He stutters in protest, mouth gaping while Clarke laughs in victory and Lexa's smirks into her wine.

“Aww, thanks dad.” Clarke punches his shoulder, laughing.

“Yeah, alright kiddo.” He grumbles, turning to Lexa. “Did you gang up on Gustus like this with the other kids?”

“Yes.” Is all Lexa offers, with a smile that reaches her eyes, they shine with something like fondness and memory when they meet Clarke's again and Clarke wants to ask, wants to dig deeper and know more but she bites her tongue and smiles.

“Girls, bullying me.” He mutters dramatically and bends down to pick Socks up onto his knee. “He's on my side.” He manages to scratch behind his ears for a moment, earning a pur and a preen before the black cat leaps from his lap and disappears under the table.

Clarke feels him rub against her leg, wrapping around her ankles before his warmth disappears.

“Looks like he's on Lexa's.” Clarke looks down at her mom's voice and spots Socks winding his way through Lexa’s legs and rubbing himself against her ankles.

“Traitor.” He hisses and Clarke laughs as Lexa lets Socks sniff at her hand before scratching along his spine. His back arches appreciatively. “So, Lexa, any interesting cases?”

“I mostly deal with the simple cases.” Lexa offers. “Settling divorces, reading wills. Titus allows me on to some of his cases.”

“And you're an Associate?”

“Yes.”

Both her mom and dad make appreciative, impressed noises and they segway into the living room, asking Lexa question after question. She nods - and it's not really a nod, not like the ones she offers Clarke, the demure tilting of her head, this is more like a bob of acknowledgment - and she sits with her back straight, shoulders back and head held high. She answers every question politely, offering stories and anecdotes in return and Clarke can practically see her dad swooning when Lexa mentions enjoying the stars and their mythology. When her mom talks about being a doctor, when her dad talks about being an engineer, Lexa never looks anything but enthralled. Clarke's heart thuds the entire night, from the moment her dad nudges her onto the sofa next to Lexa and it picks up speed when Lexa's hand scrapes along hers on the sofa, and they both freeze before her dad is chattering again.

“Clarke can walk you.” Jake offers when they crowd around the door and he rests his arm around Clarke's shoulders.

Lexa slips her shoes on, rising inches taller, and green eyes find Clarke's, eyebrow lifting questioningly.

“Yes.” Clarke nods messily, eyes caught in Lexa's heavy stare. She sees pink lips tilt in a smirk and then Lexa is turning to her parents.

“Thank you.” She says politely, shaking their hands. “Goodnight, Mr and Mrs Griffin.”

“I think you can call us Abby and Jake.” Abby smiles, stepping into Jake's side.

Clarke holds the door, taking a deep breath when she closes it behind her and she winds up with a lungful of incense that lingers on Lexa. She holds her breath then, feeling it burn as they walk in silence. The entire left side of her body tingles with the presence of Lexa, stood off to the side and making sure she stays out of Clarke's personal space, hands back and resting in her back pockets of her jeans. Clarke glances up every so often on the short walk and she catches green eyes each time; it makes her blush and she can't fail to see Lexa's ears tip pink.

When they get to Lexa's door, she turns, looking down at Clarke and almost wavering on her heels. Her mouth opens and Clarke waits expectantly.

“Thank you for having me for dinner, Clarke.” She speaks softly, eyes falling modestly.

“Thank you for coming.” Clarke finds herself shuffling forward, dipping her head to see Lexa's face in the orange light of the street lamp. She squints to see better, unreasonably annoyed at the lamp for the way it casts shadows along Lexa's face.

“Of course. Your house is beautiful.” Lexa swallows, meeting Clarke's eyes, shoulders still stiff

“My Dad and I spent a whole summer designing.” Clarke laughs fondly at the memory and this time it's Lexa that shuffles forward, hands still resting in her back pockets. “I think it was his idea of distracting me after I broke my leg.”

Clarke feels warm, feels it wash over her and surround her. “You broke your leg?”

Clarke's laugh is loud and it echoes with the shock of it. She pulls in a heaving breath and nods, eyes flickering away from Lexa’s and she's not exactly sure why her cheeks burn with embarrassment. 

“I was playing soccer and I had to make that tackle.” She shrugs, hands falling back into her own pockets. “It was worth it.”

She hadn't meant it to be so layered, but still Lexa swallows with the weight of it, eyes flickering up to the clouded sky. When she looks back down her eyes are weighted and she fickers over Clarke's face. “It's a good philosophy to have, Clarke.”

Her voice is deeper, more refined and it comes out almost like a whisper; it settles low in Clarke's stomach, pleasant. “It can land me in difficult situations though.” She tries to make it sound light, a deflection, but it comes out anything but, she can't blink or break the hold green eyes have over her. “Like a broken leg.”

Lexa's mouth twitches and she blinks quickly, rapidly. “Wing it.”

“We aren't talking about your eyeliner Lexa.” Clarke laughs, shuffling on her feet. She feels air rush into her lungs as though they've be released from compression. “That's the most un-Lexa thing I've heard you say.”

Lexa's eyes flicker over Clarke's face, dark and heavy and her mouth tilts in a smile. She flickers between Clarke's eyes and her lips and back before she settles a half-lidded gaze on Clarke's lips. “Sometimes the best things are unexpected.”

“I take it back.” Clarke whispers, she feels Lexa's gaze rest heavy on her lips, the echo of fireworks from last week ignite on her lips again, spread along to her fingertips. She pinches at her jean pockets, trying to push away the way she wants to touch and hold and trace. “That's the most un-Lexa thing I've heard you say.”

She hears Lexa laugh, quiet and almost not there, but then she's pressing her smile against Clarke's lips, puckering her lips and capturing Clarke's delicately.

Clarke breathes out, eyes fluttering, stiff as Lexa's heat washes over her like a blanket. It traps sparks between their chests, bursting and exploding and multiplying the longer Lexa's lips pull at hers. Lexa tastes like raspberry and her lips glide over Clarke's smoothly, softly, and Clarke wants  _ more.  _ She closes her eyes and follows Lexa's lips when she pulls back slightly.

She isn't sure who it is that moans but it travels along her bones and it vibrates her veins when her lips capture Lexa's bottom lip and suck. Clarke feels Lexa's hands come up to grip her waist, pulling her in tightly until their hips bump together and this time it's Clarke who moans, deep and guttural at the heavy heat in the bottom of her stomach. Lexa swallows it, opening her lips, and their noses bump when she changes the angle.

It's Clarke who pulls back, just enough to disconnect their lips, their breath still mingles together, hot and sweet and Lexa's chest heaves with the effort of it.

Clarke's eyes open first, slowly, fighting to stay closed in the moment. She realises her hands have cupped Lexa's face, thumbs caressing her jaw line and she can't bring herself to stop, hands seeping in the heat from Lexa's flush.

She feels Lexa leaning forward, eyes still closed and lips parted. Her face is flushed, and her eyes flutter under her lids, searching and desperate to stay in the moment. Clarke finds her eyes searching Lexa's face, memorising the pink under her skin, the way her eyelashes cast shadows along her cheekbones, her lips shine, kiss bruised and delectable. She doesn't want to forget any of it.

When green eyes finally flutter open, slowly and reluctantly and they fight every inch of it, they're dark and half-lidded, fixed on Clarke's lips before they finally drag away to meet blue eyes. She smiles and her teeth bite into her bottom lip, she blinks at the sensitive touch.

“Goodnight, Lexa.” Clarke's voice is throaty and her thumbs press into Lexa's jaw, trying to imprint the feel of her into her bones before she pulls back and Lexa's hands slip from her waist.

“Goodnight, Clarke.” Lexa's voice is no better and she stays stood still, blinking heavily though her eyes never leave Clarke’s retreating from. There's a coldness that sweeps Clarke's body and she has to stamp down the desire to rush back into Lexa's intoxicating heat.

Clarke glances back, and she glances back, and she glances back, over her shoulder and Lexa is still stood there, watching her go with careful, watchful eyes, still half-lidded and flushed pink.

* * *

Three days later and Clarke's lips still buzz with the remnants of Lexa. She rubs her thumb against her forefinger and she still feels the heat resting there, the softness of Lexa's skin.

“Can we go now?” Wells doesn't even look up from his phone, laid back on her bed, legs crossed.

She slaps his boot clad feet off of her blankets. “Yes.”

“Great.” He jumps up after her, following her down the stairs. “Because there's a sale on at J Crew.”

Clarke rolls her eyes, pushing him out of the front door and locking it behind her. “Well quick, we must rush.”

“I want some new boots.” He rolls his eyes right back and links their arms until they're walking together down the drive.

“What those aren't enough?” She nods to the matte black boots that cover his feet, not even a speck of dust on them. “Is it because you've taken them out of the box?”

“I want some brown ones, smart ass.”

“No, yeah I get it.” Clarke nods, mock serious. “Two pairs of brown boots are just not enough.” He laughs, loud and resigned and nodding.

Clarke looks up then and she sees Lexa locking her door. Her heart jumps in her chest, skipping a beat and then bursting back in a rapid sprint. Her feet slow and Wells looks down at her, frowning before he follows her gaze and grins, shit-eating.

“Lexa.” Clarke calls out, diverting their path to step closer. “Hi.”

Lexa turns around quickly, lips already curled in a smile and green eyes find Clarke immediately. “Clarke.” Her eyes flicker down to Clarke lips, fast and then lingering before she pulls back, her spine straight. “Wells.”

“Hey, Lexa.” He smiles kindly but he's pinching Clarke's side discreetly and she works to step on his toe.

It's not the first time they've seen each other since they kissed, and despite her mom and dad's warning, Clarke still times her taking the trash out to Lexa coming home. They talk and Clarke feels small again, she feels sixteen with a massive crush that makes her want to giggle and squeal, and she feels twenty-two with an irrevocable pull to her neighbour, she feels big. 

She feels calm and settled and messy and up in the air all at once. It's green eyes that hold her feet to the ground when she feels like the butterflies in her stomach will make her fly away.

Lexa shifts, a tin foil wrapped package held delicately in her hands. Her eyes search Clarke's face quickly and linger too long on her lips.

“Would you like to come shopping with us?” Wells asks quickly and Clarke presses down on his toe. He winces but his eyes don't leave Lexa's face.

Lexa blinks away from Clarke, appraising Wells. She fiddles with the package in her hands and then she's tapping her finger on it. “I have to drop this off at the children's home.”

“The children's home?” Wells asks and Clarke's heart sits lodged in her throat at the thought.

“Yes.” Lexa nods once, offering no more information. She looks back to Clarke. “We’ll see each other later?”

“Yes.” Clarke nods quickly. “We’re going for a drink, maybe you could join us then?”

Lexa smiles. “I’d like that.”

“Great.” Clarke grins too, nodding and then she's pulling Wells away. “I'll text you?”

“I'll see you later, Clarke.” Her mouth is twisted like she's trying not to grin too much, but her eyes shine and dimples dint her cheeks.

“Not if she sees you first.” Wells laughs, muffled and choked as Clarke forcibly digs her finger into the bottom of his spine to make him get in the car.

“See you later, Lexa.” She's breathless and it has everything to do with the way Lexa's head tilts at her, blinking.

“See you later, Clarke.”

Clarke shuts the door behind her and Wells has already got the engine purring to life. His laugh matches that of his cars gentle rumble, quiet and defined as his shoulders shake in his seat and he pulls out.

“So,” he says, drawing out the vowel.

“Don't.” She warns, watching out of the window as Lexa disappears in the distance, getting in her bike and putting the package in the basket at the front.

“What happened?” He asks anyway.

Clarke feels her cheeks heat at the thought and her heart kicks out, setting up another run. She tries to bite her lip to hide the smile and she deftly avoids his warm, curious eyes when they flicker off of the road and towards her. She twists her fingers together in her lap.

“Clarke Griffin.” His tone is scandalised.

“We kissed.” She shrugs, trying to seem unbothered.

“And?” He pushes, voice rising excitedly.

“No, that's it.” She shakes her head and she finally meets his eyes. She can't help but grin. He returns it enthusiastically.

“Wow.” He enunciates every letter excruciatingly. “She's got you good.”

Clarke stays silent, looking out of the window and trying to get her erratic heart to stop. She can feel her mouth twisting as she tries to hide the pleased grin that refuses to leave her lips. 

“Was she any good?”

“Hm?” She blinks away from the passing trees that aren't quite the right shade of green.

“Kisser? Was she any good?”

She punches his arm and he exclaims in shock.

“Don't be gross.” She grumbles even as her lips tingle with the thought.

“What?” He protests, hands gripping the wheel as he looks at her furtively, eyes quickly flashing back to the road. “She's not the most expressive person.”

Clarke scowls, hands stilling in her lap. She thinks of the way Lexa's laugh touches her eyes, and the way her lips lilt in a gentle smile, her hands that fiddle and fidget. “She's subtle.” She shrugs and she thinks of the way Lexa's eyes refused to open and her lips were left puckered, wanting more. “She is expressive.”

“Maybe it's because you're looking so hard.” He teases, he nudges her in the arm and she hadn't even realised she'd folded her arms over her chest.

“I’m-”

“Don't even deny it.” Wells interrupts loudly, head shaking. “Lexa might be subtle, but you're about as subtle as a bull in a China shop, Clarke.”

“I like her.” She shrugs and it feels lacking. The statement feels too small, not the right shape and her mouth works over the word slowly. “She’s pretty.”

“Uh huh.” Wells nods disbelievingly.

* * *

“Hi.” Clarke breathes, blinking up at Lexa as she stands, cheeks wind bitten and breathless. Clarke wonders if she'd jogged.

“Hello.” She smiles, eyes finding Wells sat opposite.

He jumps up, stepping over their bags under the table. “I'll get this round.”

“Same again.” Clarke asks, smiling sweetly as she pushes her empty glass away. “Lexa?”

“Whiskey on the rocks.”

“A girl after my own heart.” He says dramatically and Clarke has the sudden desire to kick his shin. “I'll be right back.” He disappears into the darkness, towards the bar.

Lexa slips in by her side, sliding almost too close on the leather seat. Her cheeks heat as a result and she sighs as she settles, angling herself towards Clarke and eyes searching her face.

“Whiskey on the rocks?” Clarke asks. She feels a familiar sort of weight settle in her stomach as Lexa seems to find what she was looking for, her shoulders dropping. “I had you down as a cocktail girl.”

Lexa's cheeks heat up, dark in the dimmed light of the bar but Clarke still sees it.  _ Maybe it's because you're looking so hard. _

“I was right!” The alcohol makes Clarke’s voice loud and her victorious laugh is maybe just a snort.

“I like them.” She shrugs, hand pushing her hair behind her ear nervously.

“Do you want one? I can call Wells back.” Clarke makes a move to stand but Lexa's hand wraps around her forearm, tugging her back down.

“No.” She smiles, eyes diverted downward. “It's fine.”

“Are you sure?” Clarke can't take her eyes off of the way Lexa's green polished nails hold her arm, trying to see the fireworks that burst in her nerves.

“Yes, it’s fine, Clarke.” Her hand doesn't move for a minute and then she seems to realise what she's done, realises the pull of Clarke's attention, and she pulls her hand away quickly.

Clarke wants to pull her back, wants to tell her not to pull away, to stay close but she doesn't know what to say, couldn't say it anyway, and she scowls at the spot that still burns.

“Maybe next time.” Lexa amends.

“Okay.” Clarke smiles, finally looking back up and into the green eyes that are waiting for her. Her lungs squeeze at the unsure look that Lexa casts at her and she tries to push the smile genuine. “So, you came.”

“Yes.”

“I'm glad.” Lexa grins, teeth biting into her lip and her ears tip pink.

She opens her mouth but then Wells is sliding a tray onto the table and scooting into the opposite side. “Okay so, rum and coke for Clarke, and a refined, non-party girl drink for Lexa and I.”

“Thank you.” Lexa takes a sip, knees still angled towards Clarke, even as she turns out to allow Wells in. Her back pulls straight and her head high.

“What about a rum and coke is ‘party-girl’?” Clarke protests.

“It's more the drinker than the drink.” Wells sips at his drink, amused eyes watching Clarke. Clarke's eyes widen but Wells is already turning to Lexa and leaning across the table to whisper dramatically. “When Clarke was in senior year, and I have been reliably told by her roommate that it stretched into college too, Clarke was a party girl.”

“Clarke?” Lexa asks, and she glances at Clarke, contemplating. Her eyes run over Clarke like an X-ray, looking right through Clarke and Clarke wonders if she can see her heart thudding, her veins vibrating with the smirk that lights up Lexa's face.

“No.” 

“Yep.” Wells drowns out Clarke's protest. “I have pictures to prove it.”

“Okay, but,” Clarke says loudly, she leans into them, glaring at Wells. “What Wells is failing to tell you is that he slept with my roommates. Both of them.”

Lexa laughs, she leans back a little, shoulders dropping as her eyes fix on Clarke's smile, her flushed cheeks.

“Bellamy hit on me.” Wells defends, hands held up. “And he was pretty.”

“You did nothing but argue.” Clarke protests and Lexa’s smile lights up their entire booth.

“I know.” His grin is roguish and he winks at Clarke's horrified look. “We didn't plan it. One minute we were arguing over the last of the punch and the next we were naked.”

Clarke scowls and sips at her drink while Lexa’s eyes flicker between them and when Clarke catches her eyes she rolls her own. Lexa grins.

“But anyway.” Wells says loudly, pulling their attention back. “These pictures-”

“What about the other roommate?” Lexa asks curiously and Clarke laughs.

“Maya.” She offers. “Probably the kindest person on this earth.”

“Yeah.” Wells agrees with a nod and a soft smile graces his lips. “We actually dated.”

“Which wasn't that awkward.” Clarke defends Wells this time. “Despite the long distance and the mushy phone calls I interrupted.”

Lexa smiles softly, nodding to the story.

“Apart from that one time Wells dropped by for an unexpected visit.” Clarke's eyes widen trying to push along the message and Lexa seems to get it, her own eyes widening as she flickers between Clarke and her best friend. “Yeah.”

They each sip at their drinks and Clarke tries to scour the image from her mind with the burn of the alcohol.

“So, how about you Lexa?” Wells questions.

“I never slept with my roommates.” She quips and Wells laughs. “I didn't really socialise much.”

“Oh?”

“I was too busy studying.” She nods to affirm her point. “I was captain of the hockey team.”

“Captain?” Clarke is impressed and she can't fail to hide it, even as Wells looks at her incredulously.

“You were captain of the soccer team. And Student body president.”

“So was I.” Lexa is smiling, hiding it behind her glass.

“Really?” Wells’ voice takes on a high pitch and he looks between them, grinning pointedly at Clarke.

“Yes.”

“But hockey?” Clarke pushes, trying to move past her burning cheeks. “What about your team?”

“We would do team building.” Lexa nods. “I only really talked to Costia.”

“Who's Costia?” Clarke turns to him quickly, trying to shake her head subtly but Lexa has already answered shortly and Wells is already asking, “How did you meet?”

“We went to highschool together.” Lexa's face is emotionless and Clarke wants nothing more than to know if it's because the emotion is still raw or if it's because she doesn't want to talk about it. “And then we found ourselves at the same university and on the same team and we started talking.”

Wells smiles and nods and doesn't push anymore. He just watches at Lexa's eyes slip to find Clarke again and the way her shoulders drop when she finds blue eyes already waiting for her.

“How long were you together?” His eyes flicker between his best friend and Lexa.

“Six years.” Her answer is immediate and she tears away from Clarke’s eyes to address Wells before she seems to think of something and turns back to Clarke quickly. “We’ve been over for over a year.”

“Oh.” Clarke blinks rapidly and then nods. “Good.” She gapes, mortified, jaw dropping. “I didn't mean-” She looks to Wells for support but he's too busy not at all trying to hide his amusement. The alcohol seems to cement in her bones, making her fumble with her words. “I meant ‘okay’.”

“Okay.” Lexa’s voice is soothing I'm her echo and her eyes shine with amusement.

“So, anyway.” Wells takes pity on Clarke, rolling his eyes at her before he looks back to Lexa. “These pictures of Clarke’s party girl days.”

“No.” Clarke says loudly.

“I have a picture of her-”

“Wells.”

“-jumping off of a cliff in only her underwear and a tiara.”

“A tiara?” Lexa asks curiously and Clarke is momentarily distracted by the cute furrow of her eyebrows, it makes her eyes darker and green is the only thing Clarke knows for s moment.

It's long enough for Wells to jump in. “She gained the nickname Princess after she practically beat the living shit out of everyone at everything.”

Lexa smiles like she knew it, as though she'd just had everything she thought confirmed and her eyes shine with it, only slightly smug. Clarke feels her chest flush.

“And so you wore a tiara.” Lexa shrugs like it's obvious.

“Yeah.” Clarke's mirrors her, her lips pulling up into a grin that bares her teeth and she tries to hold back the laugh. She doesn't. “Wells wore a crown though.”

“My nickname was the First Son.” He grumbles and, “Because my dad was senator.”

“A Senator?” Lexa's interest peaks and she pulls up from where she'd relaxed back into the seat and all Clarke can picture is a puppy seeing a ball. Her stomach twists and the butterflies reignite.

“Yep.” Wells finishes the rest of his drink. “I'm kind of hoping I can go one step further than him tough.”

“President?” She smiles, nodding and Wells shrugs, even though it's been his dream for as long as Clarke can remember. She feels a kind of burst of pride at Lexa's impressed look.

“Aim for the top, right?”

“Of course.” Lexa's reply is almost immediate, agreeing wholeheartedly.

“Okay.” Clarke interrupts, watching the way Wells preens and Lexa’s eyes dull just slightly. “I'm putting a veto on office talk.”

“What-”

“Vetoed. Wells.” He rolls his eye and sighs heavily.

“Do you want another drink?” He looks over their emptying glasses and down at his own.

“Isn't this my round?” Clarke asks quickly.

“You can buy the next two.” He shrugs. “I've got it. What would you like, Lexa?”

“Tequila sunrise.” Her eyes deftly avoid Clarke's and her ears tip pink.

“Same.” Clarke answers, biting her lip and watching Lexa as Wells walks away.

* * *

There's alcohol coursing through Clarke's body and her blood feels like it's more tequila than plasma, white blood cells, red blood cells and platelets combined. Lexa guides her out of the taxi with strong hands, keeping hold of her while she leans back down and sloppily kisses Wells’ cheek goodnight.

The taxi speeds away and the gust of wind it creates leaves Clarke washed with the smell of flowers and baking. She turns to Lexa and then she's leading Clarke up towards her front door.

Lexa's hands hold her tightly and Clarke can't tell if it's so Clarke doesn't fall or because Lexa's feet are clumsy too. A part of her thinks it's also because they just don't want to separate. She nuzzles her nose down to hide her smile and remembers Lexa had slipped her coat over her shoulders.

“So you stole a dog?” She's laughing and her voice breathes warm and spicy over Clarke.

“No.” Clarke protests, pulling Lexa to a stop before her door, her grip tightens, not wanting Lexa to go. “He followed me home and his owner tried to report me to the police.” Lexa is laughing again, head ducking down and hands pulling Clarke closer. “I was seven!”

Lexa's shoulders pull up in a shrug and her head shakes. “The hardened criminals always start young.”

Clarke's mouth twists and she lets a laugh burst through her lips. “I hope they don't find out I stole my teachers board marker.”

“See?” She purses her lips, mock serious. “What's next? A pencil?”

“I was thinking much bigger.” Clarke winks and she doesn't think she's seen anyone flush brighter red that Lexa in that moment. “Like a chocolate bar.”

“As a practitioner of the law I'd have to warn you against it.”

“Would you turn me in?” Clarke tugs her hands and it pulls Lexa closer to her, slipping into her space.

“I'd have to.” She's nodding and she's trying to hide her smile again. It makes Clarke's heart ache, makes her eyes never move from these lips and how they pull up so beautifully.

“Couldn't you just defend me in court?”

“You only have to ask, Clarke.” Her voice is so gentle, so soft and she practically breathes Clarke's name between them like it's a wish.

“I'll keep it in mind.” Clarke sounds like she's been smoking twenty cigarettes a day since the day she was born. She clears her throat. “Thank you for coming tonight. I had a good time.”

“Me too.” She replies honestly. “Maybe we could do it again?”

“I'd love to.” Clarke's heart thuds against her ribs, trying to break out of her chest and dance a jive between them. “I don't know if Wells will be free though.”

“That doesn't sound so bad.” Lexa shrugs, blinks down at Clarke and swallows heavily.

“Well as long as it's only slightly bad.” Clarke snorts, winking.

Lexa’s smile lights up her face and she laughs, quiet and infectious. She still tries to hide it by looking down and Clarke bends her knees to see it properly.

“You shouldn't hide your smile.” She finds herself saying and Lexa looks up, shocked eyes catching Clarke's. “It's really beautiful.”

Clarke's heart lodges in her throat and Lexa looks at her like she’s personally put the stars in the sky. She blinks quickly and her eyes shine with the tears that rise, she pulls in a shocked breath that makes her chest rise and then she's leaning in quickly, capturing Clarke's lips between her own.

“Lexa.” Clarke gasps against her, her eyes slipping closed and her hands tangling in her hair. Lexa swallows it with a relieved sigh and it sounds like she's freefalling, weightless.

Their noses bump when they pull back and push back in and they laugh into each other, almost stumbling. Their lips are reconnected before they catch themselves properly and Clarke's back hits her door. She can't tell who it is that groans but it ignites something in them and she can feel their hearts beat together, she feels Lexa's hands tighten on her waist, one slipping around to pull her closer, pulling her in until every inch of her is consumed with  _ Lexa. _

She gives a tug against Lexa's hair and Lexa's forehead creases when her breath catches in her throat. Clarke nibbles at Lexa's bottom lip gently before she pulls back with a coy smile, she can't help the giggle that escapes.

“Clarke.” Lexa's voice shudders and she forces her eyes open, though they still gaze gently down at her. She shakes her head and licks at her lips.

“Lexa.” She replies.

Before she knows it Lexa's lips are pushed against hers again, quick and hard. She surrounds Clarke so fully, lips catching and holding hers with a gentle kind of demand while her fingers tug at Clarke's dress.

She pulls back slowly, pulling back before she pushes back in, tasting more and sighing each time she sinks into Clarke.

“I'll see you tomorrow.” Lexa stays close, her face inches away, she swallows down and sways on her feet.

“Tomorrow.” Clarke nods.

**Author's Note:**

> find me on tumblr @ [itsmyturntohide/](http://itsmyturntohide.tumblr.com)


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